


Not entirely straight

by ShirleyCarlton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Shyness, post-HLV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShirleyCarlton/pseuds/ShirleyCarlton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s feelings for Sherlock have made John realise that he’s not actually entirely straight. He then comes to the conclusion that a direct approach is probably the best way to let Sherlock know how he feels, which leads to some awkward conversation but a happy ending. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not entirely straight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShinySherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinySherlock/gifts).



> ... who requested a first kiss scenario for her Winterlock Exchange gift. :)
> 
> With thanks to my beta's [Mydogwatson](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/) and [Shirelockhomes](http://shirelockhomes.tumblr.com).

John decided he just had to say it. There was nothing else for it. He just couldn’t go on like this; it was driving him mad.

For weeks – months? – now, he’d been having a hard time focusing on _anything_ , really.

Worst of all, he had been feeling increasingly unhelpful during their past couple of cases because of all this.  
Last week, he’d even managed to _actually_ let one of their suspects get away while he was holding him at gunpoint, because he had been too bloody distracted by Sherlock making a specifically brilliant deduction – and generally looking stunning and badass – while handcuffing the other one.  
Thanks to providence, he’d had the guy back at gunpoint within about twenty seconds, because the moron had managed to stumble over the very pipe he himself had thrown in their way to thwart their pursuit only minutes earlier.

But still.

This distractedness was getting out of hand.

On top of everything, it was causing him loss of sleep, which made the matter only worse and made him grumpy besides.

He had tried meaningful looks, casual remarks, intimate touches even. Oh, Sherlock had responded, with similar – ambiguous – looks, remarks and even touches.  
But never more.  
There was _never_ anything that brought them closer together than they already were.

Of course they were already very, very close.

But not as close as John wanted.

So either the most observant man in the world had remained blind and deaf because he didn’t feel the same way at all, or they were both in the same place and simply lacked the necessary courage – a commodity that during their cases nevertheless they always had in abundance.

John had to know.

He cleared his throat, resting his fingers lightly on the corner of the kitchen table.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

“I… er… have to tell you something.”

Sherlock was crouched over the tabletop, busy rearranging his insect collection. Several empty boxes were freshly marked with words like ‘parasites’, ‘weather indicators’ and ‘non-indigenous’.  
Since the task did not seem to call for a great amount of brainpower, it didn’t bother John that Sherlock continued doing this while John was talking to him.  
It actually made this easier, if anything.

“This is probably an inappropriate thing to say to someone who was once best man at my wedding,” John began, smiling nervously. He looked at the tiny legs of the giant beetle that Sherlock was lifting in mid-air with his forceps, and felt a bit like the specimen, heading for an uncertain destination.  
“But er... ever since I moved back in with you, or actually, it might even have been long before that, maybe even since we started living together in the first place – anyway...”

He stopped to take in a long breath through his nose.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and, without moving his head, his eyes very briefly wandered to the edge of the table, towards where John was standing, then quickly back to his insects.

John shuffled his feet. 

_Here it goes._

He continued: “Ever since, whenever it was exactly – after I met you – I’ve gradually come to realise that I’m not… actually… entirely...”  
He swallowed.  
“…straight.”

Sherlock didn’t so much as look up at John, but kept putting tiny lidless boxes with pinned insects in larger lidless boxes that were spread out over their kitchen table.  
“Interesting...” was all he said, rather languidly.

John blinked a couple of times.

“ _Interesting?_ ” he repeated, slightly annoyed, moving his weight from one leg to the other. “So... are you... _interested_ , then?” he blurted out daringly.  
He could slap himself, but at the same time he wasn’t even sure Sherlock had actually understood what he was saying at all.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied in a matter-of-fact tone, still handling beetles. He then frowned. “Well. Err... No. I mean...” His voice trailed off, sounding uncertain.  
His gaze froze, unfocused, a quality of resignation descending over him. Then, pensively, almost inaudibly, as if he were talking to himself, or maybe to his insects, he said: “Yes, actually.”

He then abruptly shoved his chair backwards, stood up, and skittishly looked around the kitchen seemingly randomly.  
“I... I think I ran out of acetone,” he stammered, one hand on his forehead.

John noticed Sherlock suddenly looked slightly out of breath, even though he had not exerted himself at all. His nostrils were wide and patches of his neck had flushed red.

As the meaning of Sherlock’s reaction dawned on John, there suddenly seemed to be oxygen in the room again, which he only then realised had appeared to have gone missing for a while.  
A strange mixture of intense relief, joy and anxiety washed over him.

_Oh my god._  
 _Breathe._  
 _Oh. My. God._  
 _Breathe!_  
 _What happens now??_

It was as if John had all of a sudden landed on a different planet and felt he acutely needed a plan of action to safely explore the new territories. But he had no map.  
He instinctively took a few steps towards Sherlock, who to his astonishment ( _really, what had he been expecting?_ ) turned away from him and started to vigorously rinse a glass tube in the sink, which apparently needed to be done urgently.

John frowned at the tube for a moment, then at Sherlock.  
“Sherlock, I _need_ to know. I think we _both_ need utter clarity on this. So I’m just going to be as explicit as I can in order to avoid all misunderstanding here. Are you actually _interested_ in me, in a... well... er... context of... er... you know...”  
He wiggled his head around a bit.  
“... a relationship?”

“Er, yes. Yes, quite so,” Sherlock mumbled softly, putting the tube in the drying rack.  
He took a step back from the worktop. “Obviously, I am,” he added, his eyes fluttering all over the kitchen cupboards as he spoke, as if he were merely saying he couldn’t remember where he’d put the salt.

John was about to approach him once more, but Sherlock suddenly seemed to have remembered some Very Important Thing he needed from the cupboard in the far corner, and darted away again.

John stood patiently observing him, and was starting to smile inwardly.  
Actually, his heart melted.  
 _This_ was why he loved this man. Because only to John would he show himself so utterly vulnerable, all thanks to this inexplicable magic bond they had, from which stronger feelings inevitably had started to evolve. On both sides, as it now appeared.

“Sherlock.”

“Hm?”

“Come here.”

The direct order worked. Like a good little puppy, suddenly looking very small and cute, Sherlock walked straight towards him, albeit very slowly, his eyes still uncertain but no longer looking everywhere but at John.

John smiled and took both of Sherlock’s hands in his. Sherlock flinched almost unnoticeably at this, but John understood, of course.

They were still standing almost as far apart as was physically possible while holding each other’s hands.

“Sherlock,” John almost whispered, “I’ve never done this before, either. With a man, anyway. I’m about as nervous as you are.”

Sherlock seemed to gather all his strength to keep his expression neutral as he forced himself to meet John’s eyes.  
“John, I don’t think I’m good at this... any of this. At all. I honestly don’t believe you really want this... with me.”  
His gaze shifted sideways to the floor, his shoulders slumped.

“I know _exactly_ what I want, Sherlock. _You_.”

Sherlock’s eyes tentatively flashed back towards John, incredulous and earnest-looking.

“It has always been you,” John continued, barely keeping his voice from breaking, “even since before I was fully aware of it, and always will be. So I’m going to kiss you now. And if you like it, just copy what I do, alright?”  
He quirked one corner of his mouth into a slight smile, as if in encouragement, as much to himself as to Sherlock.

Sherlock seemed about to protest, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of its water. But before anything coherent occurred to him to say, John took the last step to close the distance between them, putting one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and the other around the small of his back, drawing their bodies close – to which Sherlock did not object. He then tenderly kissed Sherlock on his lips.

John soon sensed Sherlock’s nervousness shift into something else: sheer _want_. And he found Sherlock was a quick study. Before long, their tongues, lips and noses were entangled in a wild dance, which turned out to be the one language in which they could finally declare their love.

As they kissed, frantically trying to make up for all the time that these feelings had remained unspoken, their arms wrapped tightly around one another, determined to never ever _ever_ let go again.


End file.
